Anna May Mangan’s Writing News

He does it every time we go out – my husband asks “Are these OK to wear?” looking down at his trainers that are covered in fresh  fox shite and wet grass from the most recent dog walk-athon and stale plaster dust and paint from an old DIY project. I answer him with a stare and silence and he replies “Why Not for CHRISSAKE?????” and does what is known in the wife trade as ‘going into one’.

Picture that he is wearing smartish trousers and a clean ironed shirt, the man is showered, shaved and wearing after shave. In our house that counts as uber grooming.  So trainers rejected he stamps off  upstairs and comes back wearing a pair of ten year old timberland boots that have very suspicious looking splashes all over the toes. They are the sort of boot a self respecting tramp would refuse to wear. “Better ? Yes?” he pleads. More silence from me and even louder shouting from him “I’m not wearing my work shoes. It’s Friday night/Saturday/Sunday/Half Term/Holiday Time and” (wailing a bit now)”I don’t want to wear my work shoes!” It’s now early to bed with no cookie time, but then I remember he’s 52 and early to bed is a treat so that won’t work.

Now we are late.  I am washed, dressed and wearing jewelled flip-flops for our restaurant visit with friends and he is dancing around in his clean socked feet throwing a strop. This is why I took him to Clarks shoe shop yesterday to buy a pair of shoes to wear out when he is not working or pretending to be Ray Mears. At first he wouldn’t cross the threshold because there were other shoppers in there. I explained that if we waited until they were gone the shop would be closed and we would have to come back the next day for his  new shoes.

He sat straight backed and scowling in a chair as I ferried shoes back and forward for him to try on. He said that he looked like a hobbit in a pair of ecco style shoes, a ponce when I held up a two tone pair and an impotent care home resident with ulcerated legs  when I dared to suggest a velcro operated style. Loafers made him point to his groin and grimace. Finally he settled, more out of desperation than desire, for brown  suedey, leathery, jaunty lace ups that have a definite weekend attitude.

I was paying for them when he had a Dom Joly moment on his mobile. My daughter called to say hello and expressed astonishment that her father was conscious and actually in in shop. He hollered down the phone (he always does that) “Yes, Mummy has brought me out to buy pleasure shoes.” Then he came over all confused and called over to me so the whole queue could hear “Leisure shoes? Pleasure shoes? Which is it? What is it I’m getting?”

Older and more contrary.